Scene: Pictured above: Treacher's Gorge.

   The rain had found them, waiting until they stepped onto the goat path, and proceeded to assault them mercilessly for the remainder of that first day away from Redfire.
   It took them four days to reach Treacher’s Gorge, a deep divide between several abutting mountains where the Spine intersected the Land’s End of the Undying Wall. The crumbling ledge they traversed, curved around the latter’s windswept peak, circling its southwest face, where the trail fell away fourteen thousand feet into the gorge.
   If not for the bridge, Silurian would have believed they were the only people ever to witness this sight, so desolate was the area. He had stood upon this brink twice before, but the sheer depth of the yawning abyss still rendered him breathless.
   Before them, a rickety wood and rope bridge stretched away to the center of the gap between four jagged peaks where it was bisected by a platform. From the platform, the bridge had originally split off in three directions, but they could see that the segment on the left had collapsed and a large piece of it was still attached, swirling about below the platform. Hopefully no one was on it when it fell.    The bridge deck consisted of oak, cross planks, with a thick rope handrail for support. The entrance to the derelict span lay between two sickly looking trees, the left one but a stump. The handrail hawsers and the ropes supporting the decking were anchored around the two tree trunks, shooting through two large iron eyelets atop thick iron posts driven into the bedrock.
   A strong wind buffeted the dilapidated span, causing it to sway in undulating waves toward the central platform, the ramshackle picket roadbed swinging wildly back and forth. The fraying ropes holding the entire structure together, creaked with the promise of failure. How anyone built the structure was a mystery, as it traversed a thousand feet of open air to the center, and again that far to the other peaks.
   It was all they could do to keep their mounts from stepping away from the precipice. Any slip upon the crumbling ledge would surely prove fatal.
   Avarick slid from his saddle, keeping firm hold of his horse. Confident he had the frightened animal under control; he grabbed Silurian’s reins so he could dismount also.
    “Well?” Silurian asked, the bitter wind whipping his unkempt hair about. “Who’s first?” He shouted; his words whisked away almost before he spoke them.
   Avarick raised his eyebrows. The bridge looked worse than he remembered. He was sure the southern span had been intact last time he was here. He didn’t think it could withstand the weight of a man, let alone a horse. “Um, I’m thinking this was your idea!”
   Silurian swallowed. He scanned Avarick from head to toe. “You weigh less!”
   “Even better! If you make it, I won’t have anything to worry about!” Avarick gestured with a slight bow and an outstretched hand. “After you!”
   Silurian hesitated. His horse tried to pull away from the brink.
   “Perhaps you should try it by yourself first, without the horse?” Avarick suggested.
   “Cross it twice? Ya, right!” He pulled a small blanket from a saddlebag. The wind tried to snatch it from his grasp. With difficulty, he cinched it over his horse’s face, effectively blinding it.
   Taking a deep breath, he tugged upon the reins. The horse balked at first before stepping forward. Silurian tapped the first plank with an outstretched foot. The bridge’s motion bridge beneath his probing foot did little to reassure him.
   Grabbing the thrumming hawser handrail with his free hand, he closed his eyes, stepping out over the beckoning chasm. Amazed the planks actually supported him, he opened his eyes. Looking down, he froze.
   “Don’t look down!”
   “Ya, thanks,” Silurian grunted without looking back. Gathering his courage, he took another small step, and quickly stopped again to breathe. This was going to take a while. Wait until he tied to coax his horse onto the swaying bridge.
   Wide eyed, Avarick couldn’t find his own breath. He expected at any moment to bear witness to Zephyr’s long forgotten hero plunging thousands upon thousands of feet to an unmarked grave. He should have taken the initiative himself, but his legs wouldn’t have responded even had he the courage to do so. Watching Silurian struggle with his mount, the warrior’s demise didn’t seem to be far away.
   Silurian’s mount balked, feeling the bridge move beneath its hooves. With patient determination, he compelled it forward.
   Once on the bridge, two remarkable things happened in quick succession. The bridge, with the considerable amount of extra weight added to it, instead of sagging further into the abyss, became tauter. The second was the horse’s reaction. The frightened beast had only one thought in mind: get off the shaking surface as quickly as possible. It began walking so quickly that Silurian found himself struggling to keep ahead of it. Should it overtake him upon the narrow span, or misstep sideways, they were lost.
   To make matters worse, a light sleet began to lash at them, dampening the bridge deck.
   Avarick was amazed. Silurian was actually doing it. Against all that made sense, the man was already at the junction and the bridge still held.  
   The Enervator almost screeched when Silurian reached the central platform and slipped upon the slick boards.
   The swordsman fell to his knees, for but a moment, before reaching out to grab the far hand rope, pulling himself upright, and then they were off again, man and horse, swaying their way toward the northern peak.
   Before long, far too soon for Avarick’s liking, it was his turn to cross. Silurian and his horse waited safely on the far side of Treacher’s Gorge.
   He almost turned back. Almost. For some reason, he had grown a strange affinity for the wretch standing on the far side of the fourteen-thousand-foot chasm. Was he developing a respect for the man he so recently condemned? Perhaps Zephyr had hope after all. Perhaps, but the only way to find out for sure was to see the journey through. That meant crossing the bridge. If he lost the legendary man now, he would never find him again. The High Bishop would not be pleased.
   Wiping the sleet from his cheeks, he followed Silurian’s example and hooded his horse. With a heavy swallow, he stepped out over the yawning abyss. The cataract at its base, lost in the mist far below.​
                                                                           *  *  *
​​ Silurian looked at the tiny figures of the Enervator and his horse entering the far end of the rickety span. He looked at the thick ropes securing the bridge and then to the sheath upon his belt holding his fancy dagger. It would be too easy.
​
Scene: In the war chamber below Castle Svelte. Queen Quarrnaine is looking for answers to stop the army advancing on them. The High Bishop and High Warlord are butting heads. 

   The bishop cast a sidelong glance at the large man across the table. "The royal guard also returned last night, accompanying the messengers. We must expedite preparations for the inevitable siege. Local troops entrench themselves as we speak, along Lugubrius’ borders to assist the royal host’s retreat."
   He studied the glum faces around the table, picking up the golden goblet on the table before him. Swallowing loudly, he wiped his pale lips with a free hand and reached into his vestment, producing a yellowed scroll. Brandishing the parchment like a weapon, he continued.
   "A few months ago, amid all the despondency, my deacon uncovered a scroll from deep within the catacombs below us that may interest this council. Said scroll is in ancient text unbeknownst to most, though remarkably, its concerns recent affairs." He held out the scroll to the queen. "No offense intended your majesty, but I do not believe the script will prove intelligible to you." 
   She studied the scribbling briefly, turning the scroll over in her hands, examining its quality before returning it to the bishop's care. "No offense taken, your Grace," she replied. The trace of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I trust it is to you."
   "Aye, 'tis my queen, though I must admit, even I consulted my chief archivist to fully appreciate its content.
   "The scroll is dated the year of the tree, six hundred, nineteen; two years after the Battle of Lugubrious. You probably wonder why a text written seventeen years ago is transcribed in ancient script.” He paused to look around the table. Despondent faces looked back at him.
   “We don’t know. Nor can we fathom how the scroll found its way into the oldest section of the vault.”
   He paused, allowing his audience time to mull that over. He cleared his throat, “The text begins with the Battle of Lugubrius. I shall spare you its retelling, but the latter passages delve deeper into a powerful myth that has split the church factions for hundreds of years.
   "I trust you are familiar with the Sacred Sword Voil legend?" He studied the mixed reactions while he took a sip from his goblet. He noticed a few blank looks. "For the benefit of those who are not, I shall endeavor to briefly retell it.”
   Ignoring a grunt from across the table, the bishop began, "Legend has it, the Sacred Sword Voil was forged upon the fiery summit of the world's highest peak by the hands of Saint Carmichael. He intended to use the sword against the evil usurpers of his time who were intent upon turning the church upon its back by instigating internal, political strife. Alas, while placing the final touches on the blade he was ambushed, and brutally slain. Before he died, however, the legend infers he imbued within the sword a part of himself. One of his disciples snuck into the raiding party’s camp that same night, and escaped with the sword. This individual sailed to our shores, and with the aid of a cult commissioned in Saint Carmichael’s name, erected a shrine. The sword became the focus of the main alter piece.”
   Across the table, the high warlord fidgeted with the goblet before him, trying to control himself. The bishop thought he heard the words, ‘Oh, come off it,’ uttered under the man’s breath. He glanced briefly at the queen for help, but was met with a stoic glance.
   Sipping his wine, he continued. "The Sacred Sword Voil is reputed to have retained a measure of its magical property. The sword in question is the same sword wielded by Silurian Mintaka nineteen years ago..."
   The huge warlord rose to his feet, his green surcoat unfolding around his legs. Heavy brows did little to conceal his look of utter contempt. "Forgive me my queen, but I, and I am certain everyone else assembled, grow tired listening to good bishop's children’s tales. He speaks of a sword whose magic is lost to it. I implore we stop wasting our precious time discussing some hokey religious myth. Must I point out, it is not a myth battering our good king's heels; nor is it conjecture that while we sit here fantasizing, the realm is being laid waste. Within the next fortnight, this great bastion of castle Svelte, the essence of everything we hold dear, shall fall beneath the sorcerer’s shadow. I say we stop this fairy-taling and get on with the business at hand." The high warlord pounded the table with the side of a clenched fist to emphasize his point, before easing his brawn into his protesting chair.
   The bishop received the harsh criticism with practiced composure. He looked to the queen who merely raised her eyebrows.
   “Thank-you, my queen.” He turned to face the council. “I am well aware of good Clavius’ concern. Time is a commodity we can ill afford to waste. It is for this very reason I insist the council hear me out.
   "The scroll reveals much, much more. It recounts the story of Silurian Mintaka's personal crusade to find the resting place of the healing saint, Raphael. He believed that by locating Raphael's tomb, he could invoke the saint's spirit. The scroll states Silurian found Saint Raphael’s resting place along the banks of Saros’ Swamp. The location of this particular body of water lies somewhere deep within the Forbidden Swamp, hundreds of leagues east of the Shrine of Saint Carmichael. In return for restoring the blade's magic, Saros bade Silurian leave the sword under his protection.
   "It is further written, the magic imbued in the sword cannot be utilized again until a royal member from house Svelte transports it back to its original resting place upon the altar of the Shrine of Saint Carmichael. Saros informed Silurian, that should the need ever be so great again, that only then should the sword be sought. The scroll claims, returning the blade to its sheath upon the altar will evoke an ancient magic and restore balance to the sword. And so, kingdom."
   The incensed warlord spared no time getting to his feet. “Your Highness! We gain nothing listening to the prattle of religious myth. How much time must we squander entertaining the fanatical whims of our spiritual friend? Even were there credibility to the legend, we can ill afford the time pondering such an incredulous quest, let alone find the manpower needed to traverse the Forbidden swamp wastelands in search of this fabled Saros’ Swamp.” Clavius hammered the table with a clenched fist, rattling goblets, driving home his point. “The enemy will be at our doorstep before a fortnight is past. That. Is. Fact.”
   The high warlord glared at the bishop, his breathing labored. “I say, go find the hallowed sword of yon, good bishop. Better yet, search out Mintaka. Convince him to lead you. But do it alone. This conjecture is nonsense; utter and complete drivel.”
   The bishop put down his goblet. "Your Majesty, if you will be so kind as to let me finish. Uninterrupted if you please. I assure you, I do not waste this council's precious time."
   Quarrnaine pulled at her lower lip. She gave the high warlord a stern look. "Very well, your Grace. Your council has been invaluable in the past. You deserve our undivided attention now."
   She rose regally to her feet. "Further outbursts from the floor will not be tolerated." She hammered her scepter upon the table. Everyone jumped. She directed a disapproving glare at the high warlord.
   "You may proceed, your Grace."
   "Thank-you, my queen." The bishop said softly. His next words were strong and sure. "Only a member of royal lineage, be it by birthright or religious rite, may deliver the Sacred Sword Voil to its proper resting place. Indeed, Silurian Mintaka, being a former Defender of the Realm, falls into the latter category. In answer to my friend, I dispatched messengers weeks ago in search of the man.”
   The bishop turned to the warlord. “My senior messenger arrived last night from Gritian. If Silurian is still alive, he cannot be found." He sipped from his goblet, eyeing the high warlord over the cup's brim.
    "The sword must be sheathed upon the altar of Saint Carmichael, where the original scabbard still hangs. The script states, only by doing thus shall the sword’s power be released, thus denying the evil threatening the realm.
   "There is one condition with this action…”
   “Oh, here we go.” The high warlord muttered.
   The queen cast him an ominous glance.
   “Once the sword has been sheathed, its power shall be spent. The Sacred Sword Voil is the last remaining relic of the long-ago, Age of Saints. Should we elect to use it now, we shall forever more be left to our own devices if the need ever arises again.”
   The high warlord stood violently. “Well I guess that settles it then!”
   The queen jumped to her feet. “Clavius!”
   The chamber erupted into utter pandemonium.

​Scene: The deathbed of a friend.

Bregens lay quietly beneath a heavy woolen blanket, deep within the Chamber of the Wise catacombs, close to death. The right side of his head, crushed.
   A sputtering candle sitting on the edge of a stained, bedside table, cast the room in flickering light. The table the only furniture in the gloomy room other than the bed. Incense burned within an ancient, tarnished thurible, set beside the stubby candle, its white vapor, thick in the stale air, smelled faintly of sandalwood.
    Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io, himself a bishop, knelt upon the cold stone floor, his elbows propped on the edge of the straw mattress. He cupped his face in his hands, muttering prayers. A shiny gold chain wrapped tightly about his gnarled fingers gave him something to fiddle with as he offered prayers for the dying man.
    Barely visible in the flickering light, standing in the shadows in a back corner, Silurian looked on. If Bregen’s hadn’t fended off the four horsemen in the stream, himself and Avarick would likely not have fared so well. The boy, the farmer, the green hand that recently enlisted with the Gritian militia, had slain two experienced thugs, and detained another two long enough to delay them from assisting their comrades against Silurian and Avarick.
   Silurian leaned wearily against the stone wall, bent over slightly, one hand holding up his other arm by the elbow, cupping his forehead. Traces of dried tears streaked his grimy face. He wasn’t prone to cry. He’d seen gruesome things in his time. Lost many a good friend, but for some reason, Bregens’ injuries affected him more than he wanted to admit.
    Avarick took one look at the stricken boy and said it didn’t matter if the healer were right there with them, but Silurian wouldn’t be put off. After plucking the lifeless boy from the stream, Silurian had located his horse, and tied him across its back. Avarick had found his own horse not far away. Together they galloped non-stop back to Gritian, which, unfortunately, was the closest place to find a healer.
   They rode into Gritian near sunrise the following morning. It was now past suppertime. A lone rider had been dispatched to alert the boy’s family. Another had been sent north to inform the High Warlord, Silurian had been found. As of yet, neither had returned.
    Silurian wore the same clothes he had on when they trotted into town. He had practically fallen from his horse when a squire took his reins. Others rushed to offer him aid only to realize who he was. Their concerned looks became surly, but one look from the Enervator had sent them scrambling back to their duties. Silurian shrugged off their less than enthusiastic attempts at aid. He staggered after the litter bearing the Farrier boy toward the healing chambers, on his own. A few Chambermen they passed on the way spoke of arresting him, but after a word with Avarick, they had left him alone.
   The candlelight flickered more than usual. Silurian looked up. The head healer entered the room. Shooing the bishop aside, the healer examined the motionless body. He shook his head.  
   “He’s beyond my ken. It won’t be much longer now.” The healer whispered, brushing past Solomon into the hall.
   Solomon looked at Silurian. His heart ached for the boy, but, perhaps more so for the troubled man standing silent vigil in the dark recess. He knew Silurian felt responsible for the boy. During the long hours of painful silence, Solomon tried telling him Bregens’ condition resulted from the actions of an evil band of men. Bregens had made the decision to follow Silurian.
   Solomon wanted to say something more, but couldn’t. With a sigh, he knelt at the bedside to administer Bregens’ last rights.
   Silurian listened absently to the bishop’s ministrations. He emerged from the shadows and squeezed into the tight space between the bed and the wall. He took Bregen’s hand.
   Silurian grimaced at Bregens’ bruised face, squished beneath a heavy swath of blood soaked bandages. He didn’t recognize the young man who had faithfully followed him to his death.
   Tears rolled down his cheeks. He knelt upon one knee on the cold, stone floor; his baldric clanged against the granite wall. He tightened his grip on Bregens’ lifeless hand. As cold as his hands were, the boy’s were colder. He closed his eyes and wept.  
   How long he knelt that way, he had no idea, but he became aware of the absolute silence that had settled over the chamber. He opened his eyes to see Solomon shrouded in the last vestiges of sputtering candlelight. He looked at Bregens’ and nearly leapt from his skin.
   The boy’s eyes were open. One more so than the other.
   Solomon looked from boy to man to boy again.
   Beneath all those wrappings, beneath all the pain he must be in, Bregens tried to smile.
   Silurian smiled back, almost choking out a laugh. Tears rolling unabashedly off his face.
   “We beat them, sire?”
   Bregen’s pathetic voice caused Silurian’s throat to restrict so much it made it hard to breathe.
   He nodded, his vision so blurred by tears he could barely see the boy’s smile grow wider. Silurian used one hand to grab the stained sheet and wiped his face. He clasped the boy’s hand to his chest.
   “I knew we would, sire. You are Sir Silurian, king’s champion, and Zephyr’s savior.”
   Silurian wanted to cry harder. He managed to say, “We couldn’t have done it without you. Avarick and I owe you our lives.” He raised his voice. “Now stop calling me Sir!”
   Solomon glared at him aghast.
   A tear welled in Bregens’ good eye, and rolled down his cheek. He recalled the night before the Enervator found them. Deep in the gully, Alhena had told him, ‘When the day comes he angrily warns you to stop calling him, Sir, you can rest assured, that only then, are you his friend.’
   Bregens whispered, “Aww….” He coughed. His body convulsed. Brutal pain twisted his face. When the coughing fit passed, another agonizing pain jolted his body. His grip upon Silurian’s hands was incredible.
   The seizure passed.
   Bregens turned his head to look Silurian squarely in the eye. “Bregens is Silurian’s friend?” He managed a weak smile.
   Silurian nodded, his throat constricting tighter, his vision blinded by tears.
   Bregens’ hand released its death grip. His eyes became vacant. His shallow chest rises came no more.
 
   High Bishop Abraham Uzziah sat bolt upright in bed, stirred from a restless nap. Muted sunlight filtered into his bedchamber via skylights carved through many feet of solid stone; evidence the day was waning. He looked about, troubled. He couldn’t shake the feeling. Someone was coming for him.
Scene: Alhena recalls where he has heard the warning before.

   The evening grew late as the group discussed the recent turn of events; recalling old yarns and myths in an effort to determine the significance of the warning, ‘ware the Sentinel.’
   Rook and Avarick spoke quietly alongside Longsight and Pollard who were engaged in an animated discussion, when everyone stopped in midsentence.
   A look of stunned revelation gripped Alhena’s features.
   “What is it?” Thorr asked.
   “I know where it comes from.” Alhena whispered.
   Everyone leaned closer.
   “I knew I had heard that phrase at some other time in my life, but I couldn’t quite place it.” His voice dropped off as he thought about what he said.
   “And?” Thorr prodded.
   A lengthy silence ensued before Alhena nodded to himself. “A long time ago, long before I started running for the Chamber, I was an archivist in the royal library under castle Svelte.” He drifted off.
   Suddenly he pointed at no one in particular. “Yes. Yes! That’s it!” He carried on a private conversation with himself. “The scroll. That’s where I’ve seen it before.”
   “The scroll? What scroll?” 
   Alhena looked directly into Thorr’s eyes, but his focus lay somewhere else, far beyond. When he spoke, his words came in spurts as memories slammed into his consciousness. “It was an old scroll...Ancient scroll…Brittle. We almost weren’t able to preserve it long enough to read it…Yes. Carmichael’s scroll. That’s it!” He laughed a little insanely. “That’s what we called it, anyway.”
   No one knew who we were.
   “Saint Carmichael’s scroll. At least we believe he wrote it.” Alhena sat back on the rock, looking pleased with himself. When he didn’t offer anything further, the group felt like choking him.
   Thorr spoke through clenched teeth. “And what, pray tell, did this scroll say.”
   “Huh? Oh. Well, it’s more a song than a story. Don’t expect me to sing it, though. Hmmm? Let’s see…if I remember…”
   Just when the group believed he wasn’t going to say anymore, he did. “To the best of my recollection, mind you it’s been fifty years at least, the scroll read something like this:
 

​  An eerie silence gripped the group. Everyone looked around, trying to peer beyond the reach of the fire’s glow, half expecting this ‘Sentinel’ to claim them right then and there.
   They waited for Alhena to elaborate.
   The old man looked directly at each member of the quest seated about the fire. To a person, their eyes displayed a wariness not present before.
   “Perhaps I should not have mentioned it.” He dropped his gaze to the flames, his voice falling to a whisper. “Probably has nothing to do with us…”
    None of the fidgeting people around the campfire believed that for a second.
​ When the shadow stabs,
 the life-giving sun,”
​
   He paused, staring vacantly past everyone watching him, trying to recall the verse correctly. ​

“forth shall he ride,
behind all is gone.
 
 Freedom denied,
to those whom fall
within his shadow,
death to all.
 
Upon naive waves,
he unfurls his sail.
Fear ye whom live,
for only he will prevail.
 
We live now only to await,
our life blood courses nigh.
The Stygian Lord comes again,
blighting the land, razing the sky.
 
Only one hope remains,
for those foolish enough to pursue.
Onto the Under Realm,
into hell, but never through.
 
Venture forth to unknown power,
a cradle of evil disgorge.
A quest of unspeakable terror,
journey unto Soul Forge.
 
For those whom search,
death shall follow.
For those whom persist,
shall be riven hollow.
 
As does the Innerworld,
also does hell.
A drinker of souls,
'ware the Sentinel!” ​ An eerie silence gripped the group. Everyone looked around, trying to peer beyond the reach of the fire’s glow, half expecting this ‘Sentinel’ to claim them right then and there.
   They waited for Alhena to elaborate.
   The old man looked directly at each member of the quest seated about the fire. To a person, their eyes displayed a wariness not present before.
   “Perhaps I should not have mentioned it.” He dropped his gaze to the flames, his voice falling to a whisper. “Probably has nothing to do with us…”
    None of the fidgeting people around the campfire believed that for a second.